


It's a start

by koschei



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Deaf Clint Barton, Face Slapping, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koschei/pseuds/koschei
Summary: Clint isn't tactless enough to blurt out "are we boyfriends?" in the middle of sex. (Actually, Clint is exactly tactless enough to blurt out "are we boyfriends?" in the middle of sex, but Kate told him that would be a terrible idea and she's usually right about this stuff.)Clint and Matt blow off steam after a fight.





	It's a start

Clint rests his hand on Matt's ribs, the other sliding down to grab his hip. His fingers dig in (there'll be bruises tomorrow) and he feels Matt's chest vibrate in a low moan. There's nothing tender about this. It's just tense muscles and scarred skin, the lingering aches of old injuries and the bright sting of teeth and fingernails and hands. It's sweat and dirt and bright lights, because even though it would be way more thematically appropriate and dramatic for them to be in some pitch black room with dark red satin sheets, they're on Clint's shitty cotton-clad mattress on the floor with all the lights on. Pitch black dramatic rooms don't work that well for Clint.

Clint drags his other hand down, skipping over a knot of scar tissue. Matt's moans don't really reverberate in his pelvis, but his hand in Clint's hair and the way his hips are jerking in Clint's hands are pretty good indicators that he's enjoying himself. Still, it's good to check in.

"You good?" Clint says at what he hopes is a reasonable volume. In response, he gets a single tap on his shoulder. One tap for yes, two for no. Sometimes, the simplest form of communication is the most effective. Apparently Clint takes a little too long to get moving, because Matt's hand starts pushing on the back of his head. Clint pulls back.

"Isn't patience supposed to be one of the Catholic virtues? You're going to have to mention your eagerness issues at your next confession." Clint grins up at Matt. Matt's eyelid is twitching, and he says something about justice and handprints- no, temperance? Clint can feel through his thighs that his blood pressure is going up a little. When Matt starts in on the purpose of confession, Clint pulls his cock into his mouth.

Clint doesn't like light touches. They make him antsy, especially when he has to take his hearing aids out. But Matt does. Matt delights in Clint's caloused right fingers tracing down his thighs, swirling over his kneecap, and coming back up to dance across his ribs. It's all about the texture of the sensation. Clint brings his left hand over Matt's stomach, simultaneously swirls his tongue around the head of Matt's cock and flicks his finger over his nipple, and suddenly finds himself on his back. He's half on the mattress and half on the floor, and Matt's teeth are in his shoulder (yeah, that broke the skin) and he's definitely yelling too loudly but fuck it, he owns this goddamn building. If you can't have loud sex in the building you forcibly purchased from the Russian mob, where can you have loud sex? Matt slips a finger into Clint's ass and Clint stops thinking about his apartment building.

The next few moments are a blur of fingers and lube and condom, and Clint isn't sure when he fell the rest of the way off of the bed but it doesn't really matter anyway. Matt slides into him so slowly Clint almost cries, which, maybe he actually does? Sometimes it's better not to be able to hear yourself. And then they find a rhythm and Clint just stares up at Matt's face for a while. His eyes are closed, and his forehead is sort of furrowed and he keeps saying one-syllable words. And then he rakes his nails down Clint's chest and Clint _definitely_ shrieked that time. His brain is sort of shorting out now, but he chokes out the word "more," and Matt slaps him across the face and Clint comes.

When Clint's brain turns back on he's sprawled on the floor with Matt's head on his chest. His heartbeat must be deafening (ha), but Matt never seems to mind. Matt's back is exposed, a network of scars and scabs and freckles. It's different, for them. The whole team pushes their bodies to the limit, Clint knows that. But it's different when you're not a super soldier or a literal god. Their limits are just really, way up there, and Clint is just a guy with a bow. Natasha never seems to notice. Clint asked her about it once, and she did that thing with her mouth that isn't quite a frown and said "does it _look_ like I'm playing on a different level?" Which, no. And most of the time it's great, Clint takes it as a challenge to keep up with his superpowered teammates. But sometimes you need to be around people who are capable of sustaining a concussion, people know what band-aids are for. Matt's knotted and marled skin makes Clint feel a little better about the time he took a laser blast to the ribs and had to take three weeks off from Avenging.

Matt snuggles in a little more (they're absolutely not cuddling) and Clint can't help but grin. He has no idea what they're doing. Matt seems pretty determined not to talk about it, and Clint isn't tactless enough to blurt out "are we boyfriends?" in the middle of sex. (Actually, Clint is exactly tactless enough to blurt out "are we boyfriends?" in the middle of sex, but Kate told him that would be a terrible idea and she's usually right about this stuff.) Whatever it is, Clint is determined for it not to end.

He doesn't remember getting back in bed, but that's where Clint is when his alarm starts vibrating under his pillow. Matt's gone - lawyer hours mean they never get to have breakfast together, but there's half a pot of coffee on the warmer. It's become their routine. Fight, patch each other up, fuck, and go their separate ways. No dates, no relationship talks, but with little touches like coffee and freshly made beds. They're not quite fuck buddies, not quite together-together, just another murky gray area. Clint feels like he's drowning in murky gray areas: the murky gray of being with a blind man who isn't all that blind, the murky gray of being too hearing to be Deaf, but a little too deaf to be hearing. The murky gray of being a superhero who's supposed to save lives, but sometimes just fucks things up worse.

He gulps down some coffee straight from the pot (liquid courage) and pulls out his phone. His text history with Matt is a mix of "u up?" and Matt's side of in-person conversations - mostly in bed when Clint can't be fucked to put a hearing aid in. Scrolling back down to the bottom, he opens the text box and swipes out a message.

"hey good morning hope your day is going good"

He finishes the coffee and immediately has to pee. The notification light on his phone flashes while Clint is trying to zip up his jeans, and he almost drops the phone in the toilet.

"Good morning. My day is going well, thanks for asking. Will I see you later?"

Clint too-quickly texts back "yyy"

It's a start.


End file.
